Page 8 of Take Her

I gave her a low wave, then turned around, walking to the coat check to collect my coat, my phone, and summon an Uber.

Did I fuck my hand that night?

Yes.

Fuck yes.

I spent half the ride home hard. Luckily my coat hid it from the doorman. I was tempted to stroke myself in the elevator, but remembered they had cameras in time—so I made it to my own door, first, until it was locked behind me, and I’d stumbled to my couch.

I should’ve taken pity on my dry cleaners, but they were used to me, and besides, they were already going to be getting out champagne. It didn’t matter, I’d pay them a fucking hazmat fee—I just needed to stroke myself to completion, imagining myself buried inside her cunt.

Because I’d already wanted to blow tonight, it didn’t take long at all—just remembering the perfect curves of her ass and her wriggling body and—I was gasping and groaning in moments, covering myself with my own cum.

I rocked my head back like the rest of my body was a traitor—because it was. I had only the most tenuous connection to it: I punished it in the gym, I forgot to feed it for days at a time, and I worked straight through for weeks without enough sleep.

And then here it was tonight, making demands—already getting hard again, like it’d never heard of a refractory period.

“She’s not even here,” I complained. But it was like my body didn’t know that—not when, if I breathed in deeply enough, I could convince myself I could still smell her hair.

“Fuck,” I cursed, and the rest of me agreed.

I let my hands do what they wanted to, closing my eyes, and this time, I imagined her riding me.

3

RHAIM

Iworked most of Saturday—Nero had texted me saying he needed to run a proposition by me but said he wouldn’t till we met in person next, which told me that it was too dangerous to put in writing, so I wanted to get caught up. I worked on Sunday too, minus my trip to see Isabelle and the baby, and by Monday morning I’d fully recovered my inner asshole.

I made it a point to go to the gym early and finish up my run on time, so I could shit, shower, and shave and be in my office, exactly where he wanted me to be, at eight-oh-one.

And eight-oh-three.

And eight-fifteen.

I was used to him by now. Nero Ferreo was the human embodiment of a cat: easily distracted, with the potential to be ruthlessly cruel. He was late sixties and apparently good-looking for his age. He’d had a revolving door of wives and women for as long as I’d known him—not even getting burn scars on his neck and shoulder after a tragic fire at his mansion years ago had dented his allure—and he was the head of Corvo Enterprises, the largest remaining family held company in the hospitality and gambling sector. It had hotels all around the world, two casinos in Las Vegas, and we were negotiating for a third here in New York now that recent changes in the law had made them somewhat legal.

As such, it wasn’t his job to be on time—and ever since I’d first been the driver in one of his getaway cars for him, back when I was fourteen and well before I had a legal license, I’d always known that waiting was part of the job for me.

Even now that I was his CFO.

So I carried on, knowing he’d find me when he needed to—greasing all the wheels of our assorted legal industries, making sure that all of the money we’d once made via illegal means stayed bleached, washed, and starched, going through an entire screen’s worth of profit and loss tabs one by one, until my assistant, Mrs. Armstrong, rapped twice on the door like she always did.

“Mister Selvaggio? Mister Ferreo is here.”

I glanced at the clock. Ten-oh-five.

I would’ve told her to let him in, but it didn’t matter; he was already opening the door. Nero was of the opinion that nothing should be locked to him in the entire building, because he owned it all—which everyone knew, as he was fond of reminding us.

But I couldn’t truly complain. I remembered where I’d come from and when he’d found me—and he’d made sure I was well compensated over the years.

And every once in a while he would throw me a bone for old times’ sake. Like when his coke dealer had cut his stuff before an important party a few months ago.

So many bad things could happen to someone in international waters.

It was really just a shame.

I stood as he walked in, ready to shake his hand, offer him a drink from my bar, and get down to business.